Wheel of the Year: Vernal Equinox

Signs of spring

No holiday is more personally meaningful to me than the spring equinox and the Easter season that follows—probably for vanity’s sake because I was born in April and my middle name, Renee, means rebirth. But who doesn’t love the longer days, the promise of summer in the sun’s growing warmth, and the world pulsing with fertility.

There is plenty of easily accessible information on the history and origins of contemporary Easter celebrations in the U.S., and I won’t go in to that much here. But the story of a maiden goddess returning from the underworld is a common trope. In the mountains, I imagine her footsteps leaving behind a trail of daffodil and crocus blooms. And fragrant wild onions as well!

Recently one morning when I walked outside to check the mail a movement caught my eye—a rabbit. Most likely, an Appalachian cottontail, with brown mottled fur and a cute fluffy tail. She stopped under the cover of a pine tree and stood motionless with her head turned in my direction. Under her spell, I stopped too and stood looking at her. I thanked her for visiting my yard and hoped she enjoyed the blueberry offering I’d left out the night before.

One of my early ancestors, William Richard McCann*, a resident of North Carolina, supposedly believed in the fae folk and practiced the custom of leaving out a bowl of milk or whatnot to appease the fairies inhabiting the land around him. Leaving such offerings of milk, honey, bread, or whiskey put a family in good relation to mischievous land spirits. I often think about my ancestor’s offering. Every time I have a spot of good fortune I wonder if it is the inheritance gifted to me by kin hundreds of years ago. In honor of my heritage I too leave out treats for the magical creatures that inhabit the mountains around me—whether it is bird food for the downy woodpeckers and chubby nuthatches or blueberries for the deer and cottontails.

On this vernal equinox, when all is balanced for a moment, in harmony, in that space just before the northern hemisphere explodes with life, magic, and wonder—all our winter longing made manifest—I give thanks for another spring, for another rebirth, for each breath my lungs hold.

*I have a reference for this; I found it mentioned in a McCann genealogy book. When I locate the photocopied pages lost somewhere in my files, I will give a proper reference.

Purple Crocus